


In Time We Trust

by BellaBabe



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:55:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaBabe/pseuds/BellaBabe
Summary: "Bucky’s alive.” The man who wears his face mutters.Steve stills and that fraction of a second costs him the fight. When he comes to he’s sprawled across the hallway floor. His head pounds and Loki’s words ring in his ears.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 105





	In Time We Trust

“Bucky’s alive.” The man who wears his face mutters.

Steve stills and that fraction of a second costs him the fight. When he comes to he’s sprawled across the hallway floor. His head pounds and Loki’s words ring in his ears. _Alive, alive, alive_. Embarrassed at being bested by Loki so efficiently Steve rises quickly, thanking his super soldier serum for sparing him of any bruising or concussions. Steve rejoins the team in the foyer of the building, stumbling upon a proud looking Thor holding up an unsteady Stark.

“What happened?” Steve waves between them.

“Loki escaped with the tesseract.” “I revived Tony.” Stark and Thor say in unison.

Thor is beaming.

“He got the scepter too.” Steve says, then pauses. “Wait, what?”

“My arc reactor short circuited. Zeus over here used his hammer as a defibrillator.”

Steve blinks. “Are you okay?”

Stark waves him off. 

“How’d he get the scepter off you?” Stark asks as he bats away Thor’s hands, almost falling over in the process.

Steve flushes slightly.

“Oh, did he whisper naughty things in your ear.” Stark waggles his eyebrows. It’s close enough to the truth that Steve’s flush intensifies. Stark straightens.

“Wait actually?”

“No, not actually Stark.”

“You blushed!”

“Loki can be–” Thor begins.

“Devious.” Steve reasons. “Evil.” Stark contributes.

“An asshole.” Thor finishes proudly. Steve and Stark exchange glances.

“Did you know he knew that word?” Stark whispers, loudly.

“Stark not now.”

“Because I didn’t. Aren’t gods supposed to be above human pettiness?” Stark murmurs.

“The kind of asshole who would spout emotionally damaging but obviously false lies about things he shouldn’t even know about to win a fight?” Steve asks.

“Oh definitely.” Thor nods in agreement. “I’m starving. Have you guys ever had shawarma?”

“Shawarma?” Steve mouths at Stark. Stark shrugs.

“Sounds good, lets round up the others.” Steve says.

“Avengers assemble!” Stark calls out, startling half the staff in the lobby and probably permanently damaging Steve’s right eardrum.

“That’s my line.” Steve mutters.

That would have been the end of it had Steve been capable of letting things go. However, despite his vast repertoire of skill sets “letting things go” was firmly not included. Showtunes and dashing heroics aside, Steve was almost as well known, at least in Brooklyn, for his inability to leave well enough alone. If you walked the dozen or so blocks which Steve inhabited well into his early twenties and had asked any of the neighbours, store owners, women or children they would all have surely relayed the same message. Steve Rogers had a penchant for getting in trouble. And if you had asked them why they would have just as surely said “that boy can never leave well enough alone.”

At the height of Steve’s stupid streak, as Bucky was fond of calling it, Bucky simply had to call out a general “Steve?” for some understanding citizen to point him in the direction of the right alleyway. There he would inevitably find Steve being pummelled by up to four men. Usually it was just one or two, but if Steve was in top fighting form he would sometimes go for a bigger beat down.

Bucky had once found this amusing, as time dragged on though and the fights became less about schoolyard bullying and more about fighting against every injustice imaginable, Bucky began to worry. Steve can still see Bucky’s exasperated face as he rounded the corner of the local convenience store to find Steve trying to staunch a bloody nose.

“I told the Allens kid not to tell you I was back here,” Steve mutters.

“The kid’s head barely reaches the counter, all I had to do was ask nicely and he started shaking.” 

Steve rolled his eyes and Bucky grinned and they sat in that alleyway until the bleeding stopped. Bucky handed Steve a rag so he could mop up the blood and salvage whatever pride he had left.

“Steve you have to stop.”

“He was harassing the Allens girl.” 

“The Allens girl has four older brothers, Steve.” Steve can still hear the way Bucky would say his name, exasperation tugging at every syllable.

“Well, they weren’t there now were they?” Steve would protest as Bucky rolled his eyes. 

Bucky was hardly ever serious, or if he was he tried to do it somewhere far away from Steve. Bucky believed Steve had endured enough hardships, what with all the being sick most of the year and his mother passing away when he was barely fifteen, and had elected himself Steve Rogers’ official cheerer upper. It was a role he had taken very seriously for a many number of years. However, on this day he retired the role long enough to tell Steve he was going to get himself killed.

And wasn’t it ironic that when Steve had tried to get himself killed he had failed.

…

When Steve awoke in the coming weeks it was to thoughts of Bucky. More often than not driven by dreams of Bucky. Steve dreamt of them eating popsicles on the fire escape or climbing out the windows of the old highschool to escape Mrs. Sullivan. He dreamt of how Bucky would sit outside the Allens’ store and smile at the passing girls charmingly and force Steve to draw him whenever it struck his fancy. Never actually sitting still for the whole portrait.

As punishment for his failed attempts at modelling Steve used to have whole sketchbooks dedicated to pictures of Bucky with one single feature largely exaggerated. Bucky with a nose which could rival Pinocchio's or one with ears which were more suited to Dumbo. Bored out of their minds one spring at the end of their high school years, Bucky had Steve draw scantily clad pin up dolls which they then pasted to the principal's door. This became a new favourite gag of theirs, and a way for Steve to make a quick buck or two. Steve doesn’t want to imagine what Pepper would say if he told her that Captain America used to sell porn.

The dreams refused to abate even when Steve tried to throw himself into training with Clint or Natasha, both home from missions and staying with Stark. It was a failed attempt to go to bed exhausted. It’s in one such session that Steve broaches the topic with Natasha. Steve is holding the punching bag steady as Natasha works out some frustration after a rare failed assignment.

“Loki said something to me.” 

Natasha raises her eyebrows.“Chatting up super villains now are you?”

Steve’s brow creases in frustration. Natasha stops her attack on the punching bag and gives Steve a long measured look.“What did he say?”

“He said Bucky was alive.”

Steve almost misses it, the subtle shift from cautiously interested to curiously blank. Natasha tilts her head and says with utmost calm.

“Bucky Barnes?”

Steve nods,“I know it was to distract me, but I can’t get it out of my mind.”

“It was probably just that, Cap. A distraction.” Natasha shifts back into a fighting stance and Steve knows the conversation is over. Steve repositions the punching bag smoothly.

Steve mulls over Natasha’s forced nonchalance as he’s assigned to upending a relatively small crime ring in Chicago. They may or may not have ties to Hydra, but they definitely have ties to the mafia. It’s not up to the Avengers’ usual world ending calibre but things are slow going. Seems as if the really bad guys have gone underground temporarily following Loki’s attack on earth. Apparently, defeating a large swarm of alien invaders was impressive enough to warrant a little reprieve.

When he returns, it’s with even more questions. Unfortunately, Steve is so far out of his depth when it comes to this century’s technology there’s no feasible way for him to do some snooping without alerting someone of his intentions.

Stark stares at him blankly.

“You want me to look for your old war buddy?”

“Yes.”

“Who has been dead now for seventy years?”

“Yes.” Steve tries not to let his frustration colour his voice, but he must fail because Stark throws up his hands pleadingly.

“What if I find nothing?”

“Then at least I’ll know,” Steve shrugs, all forced nonchalance. 

For all of Stark’s many skills, genius playboy philanthropist and the like, schooling his expression is luckily not one of them. Unluckily his expression clearly reads Captain America has lost his fucking mind.

…

Steve is dreaming about lazy Sunday mornings. Sunday mornings spent curled up on the couch with a sketchbook propped in his lap. Bucky attempting to make coffee that was more water than caffeine. Steve dreams of the warm weight of the mug as it thawed his fingers, the dip of the couch as Bucky seated himself at the other end. In the dream Bucky hands Steve his coloured pencils and leans over, cupping Steve’s jaw tenderly. “Cap” Bucky whispers urgently, a breadth away from his lips.

Steve blinks in confusion, this is wrong. “Cap” Bucky says again, gripping Steve’s forearm. His forearm which is no longer laughably thin but instead roped with muscle. Steve looks up at Bucky only to find blanks eyes smeared in black paint staring back at him. Steve jerks awake with a pained gasp.

“Cap.” Steve has the shield clutched in one hand before he realises that Stark is sitting at the edge of the bed, expression genuinely apologetic.

“What the fuck Stark?” That almost throws Stark off. Almost.

“I found something.” Stark whispers urgently. Steve feels his blood run cold. He’s out of bed and throwing on a t-shirt before Stark can say anything else.

“No need to be modest around me, Cap.” Stark says appreciatively. Steve rolls his eyes as they make their into the hallway. Starks leads him into the bowels of Stark Towers, into a workshop littered with half empty mugs of coffee.

Steve looks around with interest, amused at all the half finished projects scattered across every available surface. To the right, Steve spots the Ironman suit. It’s missing some plates and many of the wires are exposed. Stark notices the direction of his gaze and snorts.

“Pepper says I should just leave well enough alone.” Steve startles, barely suppressing the urge to laugh. Or maybe cry.

“Where would the world be if we left well enough alone?” Steve says. Stark’s gaze turns soft and he claps Steve on the shoulder. “Well put Cap. Guess that’s why they let you make the speeches.”

“I feel like that has more to do with you spilling your secret identity at a press conference.”

“Semantics.” Stark mumbles directing Steve towards the edge of the workshop. “Jarvis? Bring up the Barnes file.”

“Yes sir.” The disembodied voice of Jarvis intones. Bucky’s face materializes in front of them, first from a series of military photos but then from family photos Steve hadn’t even known existed. There’s even a photo of Becca with her arm slung around Bucky. Steve’s chest constricts and he tries to focus on what Stark is saying.

“So, we all know the basics. Bucky fell off the train and was never seen again.” Stark pulls up a file which has Howard Stark’s signature scrawled across it. “My father went back for his body though.”

“Never found it.” Stark pulls up another file, the obituary followed by footage of Becca speaking to the press.“Naturally, he was presumed dead.”

“No one could survive that type of fall. Now keep in mind it’s very possible the body was ravaged by animals or the weather.” Steve shys away from the thought, guilt clawing at him.

“Here’s the thing though, when we took down Hydra we uncovered their files from the war.” Stark pauses. Steve assumes it’s for dramatic effect. “Including the experiments run on Barnes.”

“What type of experiments?” Steve asks, redundantly. Stark, however, looks pleased by his participation.

“Super soldier experiments,” Stark states. “Red Skull created a bastardized version of the super soldier serum. Now unlike Banner, he actually came pretty close.”

“You mean except for the part where his whole face peeled off?”

“Well yes, but only at high unstable doses. Anyway, I uncovered the files from the test subjects. Turns out, your pal Barnes got the most significant dosage. Just shy of what they injected you with actually.”

Steve’s breathing halts, his mind racing with the implications.“Which means he could have survived the fall.”

Stark looks pleased. “Ding, ding, ding.”

“And if he didn’t die, someone would have found him,” Steve murmurs.

“Now what organization would have the resources to capture an American super soldier and the will to keep it a secret?”

“Hydra,” Steve whispers. Steve waves at the array of files and photos. “That’s a pretty big leap Stark.”

Starks shrugs. “Well, not so much a leap as a suggestion from dear old dad.” 

A copy of Bucky’s obituary has Howard Stark’s messy scrawl in the margins. The barely legible Hydra? glares menacingly at Steve.

Steve runs a hand through his hair and leans against a workbench. He stares up at the nearest footage of Bucky. Bucky’s got a somber expression on but it melts when Dum Dum gesticulates wildly to something off camera. Bucky turns to Dum Dum and swats him playfully, laughing as Dum Dum puffs out his chest.

“I think it’s time to talk to Natasha.”

“I’m going to let you handle that.” Stark smiles benevolently.

“Thank you Tony, seriously.” Stark looks surprised, Steve can’t be sure if it’s because of the thanks or the use of his first name. Either way, Steve leaves Stark’s workshop feeling lighter. There’s not so much a chance that Bucky’s alive as a place to start. And for now that’s enough.

…

Steve makes the trip to Washington at least once a month to visit Peggy. The nursing home her children have placed her in is lovely, all cream colours and artfully arranged flowers. Steve always sneaks her that rich Belgium chocolate she used to like and tries to hide his disappointment when she can’t remember who he is. Today she’s cheerful, happily flapping her hands as she talks. Peggy chatters about her kids’ graduations as if they were yesterday, which for her they were. Steve smiles encouragingly and hems and haws at all the right intervals.

“I’m so sorry darling,” Peggy smiles sheepishly, “Look at me hardly pausing to breathe. How are you?”

“I’m good,” Steve tries for a smile, mind half clouded with thoughts of Bucky. 

“Now that’s just not true.” Peggy’s keen gaze reveals that she’s experiencing a rare moment of clarity.

“Is Bucky Barnes dead?” Steve blurts out.

“Unlikely.” Peggy says giving him a bemused look. Steve’s stomach plummets. Peggy is remembering a time during the war. “We recovered the Hydra super soldier serum months ago. You know that. I told Hendricks to lock it down.”

Peggy often mistook him for a junior assistant she had in the mid-70s, a slight blonde who resembled pre-serum Steve. “Barnes was the candidate who received the highest doses, we discussed the possibility of his having survived the fall but it’s just a theory.”

Steve would love to know if Peggy had ever had a theory which had not been proven right.

“Stark swore Hydra wouldn’t leave an asset like that to rot in the snow.” Peggy had adopted a terrifying candour in her years as a SHIELD operative, something that often took Steve aback.

“He said it would be a waste of potential.” Peggy rolls her eyes, turning to Steve as if to share the joke. She suddenly turns stern. “I let you sit in on that meeting for a reason, next time pay attention or else next I’ll leave you to organize the filing cabinets.”

After that she slips into a tirade about the inefficiencies of SHIELD, leaving Steve to mull over the implications of her words.

That night Steve dreams of the encroaching cold, numb limbs and heavy footfalls. He dreams of rattling train tracks and whistling wind against speeding carriages. He dreams of hanging off the train carriage, wind biting at his cheeks, fingers grasping at air. He wakes up in a cold sweat, sheets clinging to his back and thighs. Steve heaves himself off the edge of the bed and makes his way to the kitchen. Pouring himself a glass of water he tries not to let guilt overwhelm him.

Steve grips the sink, steel bending under his grip going unnoticed. Steve didn’t go back for him. Steve had let Bucky be captured. Steve had let Hydra take him. Steve had been so wrapped up in his own grief he hadn’t even questioned the possibility of another outcome. Steve crawls back into bed but he doesn’t fall back asleep. When morning breaks he’s still listlessly staring up at the ceiling.

…

Steve doesn’t mean to sneak up on Natasha in the locker room, the only place Stark had deigned not to outfit with security cameras. He also hadn’t intended to put her in a chokehold but apparently when you surprise a former assassin you should expect a bit of a struggle. The only reason Steve doesn’t end up on his back is because Natasha is surprised. Though it hardly takes her more than a split second to throw herself into the fight.

Steve narrowly misses being cracked in the jaw and only just manages to pin her against the lockers adorning the walls. Steve’s forearm is pressed snugly against Natasha’s throat and he holds a blade against her stomach.

“What do you know about Bucky Barnes?”

“Nothing.” Natasha grinds out.

“Bullshit.” Steve spits, slamming her against the locker forcely.

“What do you know about Bucky Barnes?” Steve asks again, pressing the blade against her exposed midriff. Natasha snorts, pressing herself against the knife hard enough to draw blood.

“You’re not going to use that, Captain.”

“Funny how often people like to tell me what I’m not capable of.”

Natasha slams her forehead against Steve’s and swipes his feet out from under him. Steve’s skull cracks against the tiled floor.

Natasha straddles him, one hand wrapped around his neck and the other aiming a pistol at his forehead. Steve doesn’t even remember seeing a gun strapped to her. Natasha’s breathing is erratic and there’s a tendril of blood snaking its way down her lower abdomen.

“There was a man.” Natasha starts, tightening her hand around Steve’s neck subtly.

“Once or twice a year he would participate in a training session with the recruits. If you beat him, you were rewarded. If you didn’t you were punished,”Natasha smiles mockingly. “No one ever beat him.”

She removes her hand from the vice grip around Steve’s neck, wrapping it securely around the pistol. She takes a seat on the bench behind her as Steve props himself against the lockers.

“They called him America’s bitch behind his back.” Natasha lowers the gun and presses a hand to her abdomen, it comes away sticky with blood. Steve looks away but can’t find it in himself to be regretful, though he could have admittedly handled it with more finesse.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Steve murmurs.

“Because whoever that man is? He’s no longer Bucky Barnes.”

Natasha loops her gym bag over her shoulder and saunters out of the locker room without a backwards glance.

Natasha leaves on assignment two days later. Steve was supposed to accompany her but had been reassigned for obvious reasons. When Steve receives a call from Fury, it’s to answer the phone to a brutal tongue lashing about playing nice and being professional. Oh and not assaulting his fellow team members. Fury hangs up after threats of signing him up for anger management and forcing a move to Washington where Fury can keep a better eye on him.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, he’d forgotten Natasha was Fury’s favourite. Unfortunately, Fury wasn’t the only one with a soft spot for Natasha. Clint who, while normally what one might call fun loving but what Fury had dubbed as a reckless, was quite enamoured with Natasha. Which is why when Clint comes home three weeks later his first stop is Steve’s floor.

This is how Steve wakes up with Clint perched on his sternum. The weight startles him awake abruptly and as he struggles for breath Steve has to wonder about his life choices, if just a little.

“Hi, Cap.” Clint says, polishing what Steve can only assume is a dagger if the way the moonlight glints of the blade is any indication. Steve’s sigh may be described as resigned but a more apt description would be world weary.

“Hey, Clint.” Steve replies, voice strained.

“Heard you and Natasha had a little fight.” Steve wonders why Clint felt the need to describe the incident as little if he was going to inject the word with such venom.

“About that–”

“I would issue some threats but Natasha is more than capable of doing that herself.” Clint interrupts.

“So I would just like to take this moment for it to sink in that I have access to your floor and have already disabled all the cameras. Just something to think about.”

“That was a threat.”

“I guess it was.” Steve swears he can see Clint smile in the dark. Clint clambers off Steve’s chest and Steve rubs at the already fading bruise petulantly.

“Bad dreams?” Stark asks as Steve blearily makes his way into the common area the next morning.

“Something like that.” Steve murmurs, glancing at Clint sipping at his coffee happily.

“Coffee?” Stark motions to the counter where a fresh pot sits. Steve nods eagerly before he stills.

“Did Clint make that pot?”

“Uh, yes. Why?” Stark looks over at Clint as he smiles, all wide eyed innocence.

“I’ll pass then.” Steve’s says, voice high pitched.

Steve’s sitting at his kitchen counter, engrossed in a novel about the Cold War, when Natasha turns up unannounced. Steve hardly has time to register the muted ding of the elevator and Natasha’s shock of red hair before he’s scrambling out of his seat. Steve takes a few steps back, hands out in supplication.

Steve might have felt more embarrassed by this situation if he hadn’t seen Natasha maim a man with a paperclip. Natasha stares at Steve, eyebrows quirked but otherwise indifferent, and deposits a file on the counter.

“What is this?” Steve asks picking up the file which can’t be more than five pages.

“Everything we have on America’s bitch.” Natasha pulls up a seat at the island and pours herself a cup of coffee, flipping through Steve’s book idly. Steve tentatively leafs through the file.

“A few years ago, I was escorting this scientist for SHIELD. I was intercepted by a Hydra operative.” Natasha lifts her t-shirt, exposing a puckered scar which runs across her lower stomach.

“I didn’t see his face but I knew. I knew it was him. No one could fight like him.” Steve wonders if he’s imagining her wistfulness. “They called him the Winter Soldier.”

Natasha places a gentle hand on Steve’s arm.“Steve, I want you to understand that that man has not been Bucky Barnes in a very long time.”

Then she gets up to leave, taking Steve’s coffee mug with her.

“Let’s agree to play nice alright?” Natasha says, before turning around and breaking Steve’s nose.

At their debriefing that afternoon Clint laughs so hard at Steve’s purpling nose that he has to excuse himself.

…

There’s hardly enough intel in Natasha’s file to provide for much more than a wild goose chase across Eastern Europe. But it’s a wild goose chase Steve embarks on with renewed vigour. Steve hasn’t had purpose like this since he came back from the ice and he hardly pauses to inform Fury of his intentions before he has Stark scour Hydra files for information. Stark offers to come along but is this is quelled by one stern look from Pepper. In the end, Steve flies into Belgrade alone.

Belgrade is a city fractured by war, buildings still blackened and hollowed out from the conflicts. Abandoned buildings are rife with graffiti and markets are bursting with colourful wares. It is a city which reminds Steve of his days in the army, lively and sinister all at once. Steve navigates the banks of the Danube river with the sole intention of finding something local to eat, meandering down narrow streets with a badly concealed air of wonder.

Steve has never travelled, not unless you count foreign pubs and government buildings during the war (which Steve doesn’t), and it makes him think of what could have been had he not buried himself in the ice.

Two days after touching down in Belgrade Steve wakes up to his burner phone’s jarring ring.  
“West bank of the river, all the way down Cara Dusana, past the shopping centre. Take two rights. It’s a pharmaceutical company.” Natasha hangs up.

Steve’s chest tightens and he hauls himself out of bed. As he attempts to negotiate a peace treaty with the coffee machine he scans a map of Belgrade using Natasha’s directions. It’s unlikely the Soldier is anywhere near whatever facility is masquerading as a pharmaceutical company, but Steve is desperate for any clue of what happened to the Soldier. Steve sips at watery coffee and scans the file Natasha gave him for the hundredth time.

The pharmaceutical company is a dead end. So is the lab in Budapest, the arms dealership in Miskolc, the facilities in Prague, Zagreb, Riga, Munich and Frankfurt. All he has to show for four months of searching is a collection of coded files about the serum, the mechanics for some chair contraption Steve can’t make heads or tails of and a detailed report of what Steve assumes is a training log. It catalogues the Soldier’s strengths and points of weakness and includes recommendations in the margins. Steve has spent countless hours staring at these flimsy pieces of paper, the only trail left behind for the most important person in his life.

Steve is in Budapest again, occupying a cramped apartment furnished by Natasha. The apartment is painted a deep blue and contains a collection of mugs with tacky slogans in a bright array of colours. Steve assumes that the mugs aren’t Natasha’s doing.

Steve followed up on Natasha’s lead earlier this morning, a laboratory on the outskirts of the city. The facility was relatively new, probably no more than ten years old if the technology it was equipped with was anything to go by. There was something different about it. Most of the time Steve stumbled onto facilities well into disrepair, abandoned with a clinical efficiency. Bare of weapons or lab equipment, a white walled wasteland.

This morning Steve had walked into a lab with equipment strewn across the floor, scalpels and restraints still lying where they had fallen. The blood splattered across the walls was also new, no more than a few days old. Natasha still hasn’t called Steve back.

When Steve returns with take-out, fully prepared to watch some poorly subbed sitcom and fall asleep with his phone nearby, its to a glock aimed at his head.

“Who are you?” The man asks, a mask partially obscures his face, the upper half is covered in some sort of black paint. 

Steve stops breathing, “Steve Rogers.”

The Winter Soldier stares at him blankly, “You’re dead.”

“So are you.”

“You’re looking for Hydra.”

“I’m looking for you,” Steve says instead.

The Soldier tilts his head and presses the barrel of the gun more firmly against Steve’s temple. “Why?”

“I knew you before you were Hydra. I knew you as Bucky Barnes.”

The Soldier's eyes crinkle beneath the paint. Steve realises he’s smiling.

“Here to save your old wartime buddy?” The Soldier cocks his head, mocking. “That’s so sweet.”

“Well, I made a promise.” Steve murmurs. The Soldier is unimpressed. “So why am I not dead yet? From what I hear you’re notoriously good at what you do.”

“You still have a deathwish, Captain?” Steve freezes, _still_.

“Maybe I’m just as brave as the stories say.”

“Just as stupid too.” The Soldier holsters his gun and steps away from Steve, disappearing out the window. An echo of another lifetime, _How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you_.

A month later Steve is dispatching a small Hydra facility in Sicily when the Soldier strolls into the compound. Steve loses focus just long enough that a Hydra operative manges to retrieve his fallen weapon. The man has taken half a step towards Steve before he drops listlessly to the floor, a bullet in his head.

“You know he’s one of yours right?” Steve asks incredulous. The Soldier rolls his eyes heavenwards. The paint is gone, only the half-mask remains. It does little to hide the Soldier’s exasperation.

“A simple thank you would suffice, Captain.”

“I didn’t know you traded in thanks.”

“I’m making an exception.”

“Is it because I’m oh so pretty?” Steve asks, wiping blood from his shield and batting his eyelashes at the Soldier. The Soldier stares at Steve in disbelief.

He tells Natasha to send any international skirmishes his way, figuring he might as well do some good while he’s here. This it seems is the key to finding the Soldier, who stumbles upon Steve regardless of whatever intel Natasha is feeding him. Which is why when Steve is in the process of apprehending an intelligence operative in Saint Petersburg it is almost unsurprising to find the Soldier leaning against the building Steve rounds.

Steve stops. The Soldier is no longer wearing the heavy kevlar. Instead he’s wearing a fitted jacket, knee length and made of some sort of thick material. His hair, which has always hung loose and unruly around his face, is tied back. His face is bare, strong jaw and blue eyes stare frankly back at Steve. Steve reminds himself, rather forcibly, that the Soldier is technically an assassin and most likely has no recollection of a time before Hydra.

“This is starting to get a little creepy.” Steve says around his laboured breathing. The Soldier raises an eyebrow.

“I mean they did warn me that stalkers come with the fame.”

The Soldier snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Steve is overwhelmed by their close proximity. Bucky’s eyes, his hands, his jaw and day old stubble. Steve feels a little light headed.

“Captain?” The Soldier says a little worriedly, “He’s getting away.”

The Soldier points behind him.

“Oh, fuck.”

Steve is on the phone with Natasha, circling a park two blocks from Natasha’s St. Petersburg apartment, when he spots the Soldier sitting on a bench. He’s feeding the ducks.

“I’ll call you back.” Steve hangs up without waiting for a response.

“Nice weather.” Steve says non-committedly, taking a seat beside the Soldier. Unfazed the Soldier tilts the bag of oats towards Steve.

“No bread?” Steve asks, throwing a handful towards the ducks.

The Soldier lets a duck eat out of his hand, “It has no nutritional value. It can lead to angel-wing.” 

“Come here often?” Steve tries, devilish smile in place. The smile he used on chorus girls.

The Soldier stares at Steve blankly, “That’s terrible.”

“It’s a classic for a reason.” Steve states, trying to entreat a duck to eat from his hand. The ducks seem to favour the Soldier, must be the eerie resemblance to a statue.

“The super serum can only do so much Captain. You should update your material.”

“I’ll put that on my to-do list.” Steve nods solemnly, “Fight bad guys, update pick up lines, find ex-best friend turned assassin.”

“I’m not sure I approve of your priorities.” The Soldier dusts himself off, pocketing the packet of oats.

…

When Steve unlocks the apartment he rented in Dubrovnik its to find the Soldier sitting at the small fold out kitchen table, rummaging through a box of crackers.

The Soldier waves.

Steve really has to wonder how he got here, standing in Croatian paradise with a brainwashed assassin who wears the face of his best friend asking him if he has hummus. The Soldier crows happily when he retrieves it from the depths of Steve’s fridge.

“So this Bucky Barnes–” The Soldier pauses, sitting back down. “He was a war hero huh? All about fighting for his country and all that rot?”

Steve almost laughs, remembering the way Bucky used to gripe about the old rich fuckers who earned their rank by wealth instead of virtue, throwing them into the bloodshed.

“At best he was a reluctant patriot.” Steve takes a seat next to the Soldier. The Soldier offers him the box of crackers, pushing the hummus towards him.

“By the time I met the Commandos they would have gladly killed for Bucky. He just had that effect on people. Always cocksure and steadfast and just charming enough that having his attention made you feel like you’d won some sort of prize at a carnival. He always could–” Steve breaks off abruptly and averts his gaze.

The Soldier stares at Steve assessingly. He puts the hummus back in the fridge before escaping through the window.

Steve stays in Dubrovnik for two weeks because spring has arrived and he likes how the walled city overlooks the Adriatic. He eats the local delicacies and wanders the city as if in a daydream, more at peace with himself than he has been in a long time. When he climbs into bed at night there is a strange stillness in the air which grates at Steve’s war torn nerves.

He avoids Natasha’s calls and goes to the beach instead, painfully trying to make his way through a poetry book before deciding he has no taste for it. By the end of the third week he’s restless and grateful for the Soldier’s interruption of his nightly routine.

“You could just use the front door.” Steve says around the toothbrush in his mouth as the Soldier hops down from the window ledge.

“You grew up with Bucky Barnes.” The Soldier says in lieu of a greeting. Steve gargles instead of responding.

“You grew up in Brooklyn and you went to war together.”

“Someone’s been doing their homework,” Steve muffles a smile. “Well, Bucky went to war and I sort of followed along after. You know after some minor adjustments.”

Steve gestures at himself broadly.

“He was mad at you.” Steve startles.

“What?”

“Maybe not mad actually,” The Soldier cocks his head, studying Steve intently, “Sad.”

“Bucky Barnes was sad that you became enhanced.”

“How do you know that?” Steve asks sharply.

“He thought you would leave.”

“I would never have left him.” Steve bites out, “Never.”

The Soldier looks back at Steve. He leaves through the window.

Steve dreams of Bucky’s tight lipped smile. The one he used to give Steve when he had done something particular stupid and Bucky was on the brink of laughter. It was the smile Bucky would give him across his mother’s table, as Steve was getting berated and Bucky valiantly tried not to laugh. It was the smile that Steve would see as Mrs. Sullivan had him sit in the corner of the class, isolated from his peers for one reason or another.

The thin stretch of lips an indication that Bucky wanted desperately to laugh at Steve. It was hard to be mad. Even before Steve missed Bucky’s laugh more than anything it was hard to be mad at Bucky for finding humour in Steve’s various predicaments. Of which there were so many.

If anything that smile was all the more precious to Steve because it signalled that he would soon get to hear Bucky’s raucous laughter. A sound he would probably never have tired of. Steve wakes up slowly, fuzzy from the pleasant warmth of his dreams.

“You were in love with him.” The Soldier’s voice floats up from the darkness. Steve’s throat is dry.

“Yes,” Steve whispers. 

“Is that why you killed yourself?”

“I didn’t–”

“Is that why you crashed a plane into the Arctic?”

“Yes.”

“Was he worth that? Was Bucky Barnes worth your grief?”

“Yes,” Steve admits. "But not my life. Not like that anyway.”

The Soldier gives him an appraising look. He nods and makes for the front door.

…

Steve leaves Dubrovnik and settles in Paris, where the locals turn their nose up at Steve’s department store clothing and poor French. Steve visits the museums and spends hours sketching people as they wander through the elaborate Parisian parks.

It’s been a month since he’s made contact with Natasha and he knows he owes her an explanation. He has yet to come up with anything better than I needed some time. Flimsy even to his own ears. And a lie. The truth of the matter is Steve isn’t a good enough liar to divert Natasha and Steve has not given much thought to how he should be handling a Hydra assassin. He’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to let them into your apartment and get distracted by their eyes.

Steve dials Natasha’s last known number. It rings three times before she picks up.

“Hi.” Steve says sheepishly into the speaker.

“Steve.” Natasha drawls sarcastically, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Steve cringes, “Sorry.”

“What happened?” Natasha softens.

“I found him.” There’s a lengthy pause.

“ _You_ found him.” Natasha says a bit incredulously.

“What do you mean _I_ found him?” Steve snipes, a bit affronted. Steve can practically hear Natasha roll her eyes.

“I just meant you’re not exactly known for your stealth. If I need a door broken down you know you’d be my first call.” Steve blushes, thinking of the banquet they attended in Washington last fall.

“Well, I found him.” Steve says a bit petulantly.

“How?”

“Oh you know, stealth, strategy, good solid groundwork–”

“He found you didn’t he?”

“Yes.” Steve relents.

“How do you want to handle this?”

“I don’t want to bring him in.”

“Steve–”

“I know. I know. He’s an evil, brainwashed, president killing assassin but–”

“He went rogue.”

“What?” Steve splutters.

“He left Hydra.” Natasha pauses and Steve hears rustling in the background. “They’re scrambling to find him.” There’s some murmuring from Clint and then the click of a door. It must be close to midnight there.

“SHIELD’s frantic too. They think he’s acting as a gun for hire.” Steve almost laughs. As far as Steve can tell the Soldier is strutting around Europe in those classy fitted pants in an attempt to drive Steve mad.

“Steve?” Natasha says, sounding as if she’s called his name a few times already.

“Hm, sorry. I’m here.”

“I can only hold Fury off for another month.”

Natasha hangs up.

Steve’s burner phone blares loudly. Steve is staring up at the ceiling, eyelids heavy but still awake despite the late hour.

“Get out of Paris.”

“What?” Steve sits up abruptly.

“SHIELD knows you’ve found the Winter Soldier.” Natasha explains.

“Do they know where he is?” Natasha hesitates.

“Natasha, do they know where he is?”

“26 Rue de Marcadet.” 

Steve arrives just in time to see the Soldier carelessly stomp on the nearest man’s jaw, Steve hears a crunch and blood spurts from the man’s mouth. Bucky handles an AK 47 casually, a mess of bodies already surrounding him. The grey pull over he’s wearing is splattered in blood. The Soldier gives Steve an appraising look, rifle aimed at Steve’s head.

“This was not my doing. I didn’t tell SHIELD about you.” Steve holds his hands up, shield still strapped to his back, “No one is going to hurt you.”

The Soldier lowers the rifle a fraction and gives Steve an incredulous look. Steve almost laughs.

“Okay, granted not my most convincing line.” The Soldier lowers the rifle to his side and takes two steps towards Steve.

“You always did have the worst lines.” Steve freezes. The Soldier gives a flash of a smile as he slides the blade into Steve’s stomach.

…

Steve wakes up on a helicarrier headed back to New York, honoured and a bit embarrassed that Natasha had felt the need to call up this many Avengers. Stark, Banner and Clint all stare at Steve a little dumbfounded.

“He didn’t want to kill me.” Steve argues fruitlessly.

“Steve, he stabbed you.” Stark says slowly, as if Steve may have already forgotten how he’d obtained the sharp pain in his abdomen.

“It didn’t hit anything vital!” Steve argues. Stark trades glances with Banner over Steve’s head and pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Steve doesn’t even want to work out the implications of Stark making that face of exasperation at him. That gaze was only ever directed at Stark himself, mostly by Pepper.

“No, he’s right. If the Soldier wanted to kill him, he'd be dead.” Natasha is leaning against the door of their makeshift medical bay. Steve beams up at her appreciatively before throwing an accusing look at Stark.

“How did SHIELD track him down?” Steve asks, changing tactics. Natasha and Clint trade glances.

“There’s been a bit of a security breach.”

“What do you mean?”

“SHIELD’s been compromised.” 

Stark stifles his laughter very poorly. Steve valiantly tries to remind himself that he is an American symbol of courage to refrain from thumping Stark over the head.

“Aw c’mon Cap. It’s not that bad.” Stark cajoles, positively gleeful. 

“A desk job?” Steve mutters.

“You wanna sing show tunes instead?” Fury asks.

“No, sir.” Steve mumbles, shooting Stark a _will you shut the fuck up_ look which does absolutely nothing. Fury leans forward and laces his fingers together on the desk.

“No more running after deadly assassins.” Steve crumbles a little and Fury cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Look Rogers, Natasha briefed me. It’s not like your reconnaissance missions were yielding much information anyway. At best you were giving him easy access to you.” Very easy access, Steve’s mind unhelpfully leers.

“If his pattern holds he’ll come to you eventually.”

... 

He’s not sure who initiated code Broken Heart, but his first two weeks back the Avengers had tiptoed around him and treated him to ice cream sundaes and sad movies. Apparently the cure to losing your assassin best friend was the same as a breakup. Steve was choosing not to analyze that too closely.

By the one month mark the Avengers had all collectively decided to steer clear of Steve. Steve had gotten so surly the Avengers had all been suspiciously absent from common places and group activities had ceased, or at least the ones Steve was invited to.

Natasha had refused to participate and had dragged Steve to the gym almost every day for what she dubbed anger management training. It helped somewhat, mostly because Natasha was the only one who did not indulge his self-pity. Even Stark had succumbed, giving him worried looks and bringing him incorrectly brewed very bitter hot chocolate.

Three months later Steve wakes up to muffled swearing. Immediately alert, Steve removes the glock he keeps in the drawer and creeps towards the kitchen. Steve peers around the doorway of his room to find the Soldier fighting with his coffee machine. He’s glaring at the tiny red machine in contempt.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks, placing the glock on the end table and leaning against the door jam.

“Making coffee.” The Soldier stares at Steve as if he’s dim.

“You just–” Steve pushes himself off the wall, the Soldier tenses. Steve puts his hands up, moving towards him slowly. He tries very hard not to stare at the fine lines of the Soldier’s face, the fading bruise on his cheekbone, the twitch of his lips.

Steve thumps the coffee machine causing it to sputter violently, spewing coffee into the Soldier’s chosen mug. It’s bright pink with _Mommy’s favourite archer_ emblazoned on the side.

“So are all of New York’s coffee shops closed at this hour?” Steve asks, reaching for his own mug.

“I wanted the home made stuff.” The Soldier mumbles, not meeting Steve’s eyes.

The Soldier takes a sip from his mug and grimaces, “This tastes like battery acid.”

Steve laughs and lifts his mug as if in cheers. The Soldier glances at him speculatively.  
“You have the same laugh as–” The Soldier pauses, “You used to get this little crinkle–”

Steve stills, mug halfway to his mouth.

“You went to Coney Island once. There was a man, a little girl smashed her ice cream in his hair. You wouldn’t stop laughing about.”

Steve tries to smother his smile for fear of jeopardizing this moment. The Soldier dumps the rest of his coffee down the drain, a faraway look in his eyes. His eyes focus on Steve.

“How about some breakfast, Stevie?”


End file.
